


Broth

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: M/M, cosy cottages and broth and furs, geralt needs a nursemaid, just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:54:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22085953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: Geralt's ill and needs taking care of.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 671





	Broth

**Author's Note:**

> I watched this show over Christmas and then read A LOT of fanfic.

“I am  _ not _ sick.”

“Oh, definitely not,” Jaskier says from where he stands at the rudimentary stove, stirring a meat broth. “Just because you look paler than usual - and your  _ usual _ is ghost-white by the way - and you can hardly stand, that definitely doesn’t indicate that you’re sick.”

“Fuck off, bard,” Geralt intones, but there’s no heat behind the words.

Jaskier looks over, unable to stop the little pinch around his heart. The massive Witcher lays in the (thankfully) large bed, half a dozen throws and furs mountained over his body. Only his shock of pale hair can be seen against the thin pillow which is yellowed with age.

They had to stop travelling once Geralt fell ill, and these were the best lodgings available, surplus coin or no.

Jaskier had to sit down for a good half hour after half carrying, half dragging Geralt into the small cottage owned by the innkeeper, currently vacant after his previous tenant met an unfortunate end sticking his dick into the wrong married woman (his loss, thinks Jaskier, they have a warm place to stay). The innkeeper, a gruff, beaded man with only two fingers on his right hand, was more than happy to say nothing in exchange for two gold coins pressed into his palm.

Shame that Jaskier and Geralt wouldn’t be doing the sort of the things the innkeeper likely suspected. Jaskier would be lucky if he got another word out of the Witcher this evening.

The bard poured the broth - a fine smelling broth even if he did say so himself - into one of the sturdy wooden bowls he’d found in the pantry and carted it over to the bed. Geralt lay nearly motionless, just the rise and fall of his broad chest under the furs an indication that he was alive.

“Broth,” Jaskier announced. “Heated by my own fair hands. And before you say it, I know you’re thinking:  _ I hope he’s a better cook than a bard. _ And you can fuck right off.”

Geralt grunted, a sound that might have been a chuckle or a snort. It was impossible to tell.

“Well sit up then, you’re not dead yet, are you?” Jaskier prodded, until the Witcher heaved himself into an elevated position. Jaskier bit down on his worries. Geralt had been injured before, and made a full recovery before.  _ He’s just tired, worn out, that’s all. Needs someone to look after him. _

Gods, he sounded like a fucking nursemaid.

“Mmmm,” Geralt said by way of response.

“Broth,” Jaskier repeated. He scooped up a spoonful and delivered it to Geralt’s lips. “Come on. It won’t make you feel any worse, will it?”

Geralt arched a pale brow.

“Just  _ fucking eat it so you don’t die,  _ all right? ”

His tirade worked, well, sort of. The Witcher took the bowl from him and spooned up the broth himself. When the bowl was half empty, he cast the spoon aside and drank the remainder as if from a cup.

Jaskier took the empty bowl. When he went to stand from the bed, he felt Geralt catch his wrist.

“Jaskier.”

“Yes…?” The bard asked, waiting for some terrible rebuke about his cooking skills, or worse.

“Thank you.”

A clever retort or something nasty hovered on Jaskier’s lips, but then went unsaid. Why not just accept the thanks he deserved for caring for his friend?

“You’re welcome,” he said instead, but Geralt had already slipped into sleep, his fingers now loose around Jaskier’s wrist.

The bard finished the remainder of the broth himself, and then curled up on an overstuffed chair under a pair of furs, to keep watch by candlelight.

  
  
  
  



End file.
